Family

Watch out for the catfish and be sure to X-ray the dog BY TRACEY O'SHAUGHNESSY | REPUBLICAN-AMERICAN

Everybody loves a good dog story. And the one that landed on the front page of the Providence Journal one morning was a heart-warmer.

In the early 1980s, a Rhode Island family went on its annual vacation, taking the beloved dog with them.

Alas, when it was time to shepherd the family home, the dog had vamoosed. The family looked high; it looked low, but as Rhode Island beckoned, neither snout nor tail of their beloved mutt could be found. Off they went.

Now, you already know how this shaggy dog tale is going to end. Months go by and the bereft family opened the door to find its tired, dusty old dog padding up the sidewalk. Cue the violins. Lassie had come home.

But when Joel Rawson, then the afternoon editor with the Providence Journal, read the story, he thought: C'mon.

How do they know it's the same dog, he asked the reporter.

Easy, said the reporter. As a puppy, the dog was hit by a car and broke its leg. This dog had the same distinctive limp.

In that case, said Rawson, in a demand that has become notorious throughout New England newsrooms: X-ray the dog.

They did and in so doing, discovered the dog's secret: The shifty cur was an impostor!

Had this story run last week, the Rhode Island family, which ended up keeping the furry fraud, might have named it Lennay Kekua.

Lennay Kekua may now be the most famous woman who never lived. Or maybe the most famous woman who never died. She was the chimerical beloved of an either despairing or devious Notre Dame football player Manti Te'o. Either Te'o was the victim of an elaborate and malicious Internet hoax, or he was the perpetrator of a vile ruse to make us all pity him. Take your pick.

Either way, by the end of the week, Te'o looked like the biggest meathead to ever strap on a pair of shoulder pads, which is saying something.

For those of us unfamiliar with the world of college football (Hello!) and less familiar with the world of online dating (ditto!), the Te'o swindle was a revelation. Until last week, for example, I thought that the term "catfish" referred to a bug-eyed bottom feeder with mutton chops. I've subsequently learned that it refers, according to the online Urban Dictionary, to "someone who pretends to be someone they're not using Facebook or other social media to create false identities, particularly to pursue deceptive online romances." Such fiendishness is so endemic that it has spawned not only a movie but an MTV reality series.

Is it me, or does it seem like all the wrong people have oodles of free time?

Nearly 40 million Americans troll Internet dating sites, a romantic alternative infinitely more appealing than stalking the soused at bars and only slightly more efficient than thrusting your grocery cart toward the loneliest- looking person perusing the peas.

The problem, of course, is that the only ploy easier than stashing Cyrano in the bushes is impersonating the soulmate of one's dreams. In the words of the celebrated New Yorker cartoon, "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog."

More troubling than the not-entirely-alarming apprehension that the Internet is teeming with charlatans whose exclusive ambition is to wring a few yucks from your humiliation is what the Te'o imbroglio reveals about romance in the 21st century.

News reports indicate that Te'o, who said he bravely played on the day of his supposed girlfriend's supposed funeral, never met the bewitching Lennay. Their "relationship" subsisted solely through email, Twitter postings and phone conversations.

Where was I when there were so many virile 20-year-old boyfriends who demanded nothing but a good-night text?

In my day, a hearty specimen like Te'o could develop a relationship with a blocking sled. How such a hunk of burning love could keep his pilot light lit without so much as a stroke of his flint is a little hard to fathom.

Equally perplexing is how such a devoted paramour could discover that his beloved had fallen into a coma, and not rush to her bedside to comfort her. Evidently, in such circumstances, BCNU works just as well.

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